


The Adventure of the Second Caravaggio

by headless_nic



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 16:08:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17287232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headless_nic/pseuds/headless_nic
Summary: The Malhursts' townhouse has been closed up for eleven years, but now it is about to be re-opened. The young Jezebel Malhurst is tasked with itemising the artwork and makes some startling discoveries, which lead her to engage the help and advice of Sherlock Holmes. In this story, Holmes narrates his solitary adventure to his old friend and his wife Mary. One-shot!





	The Adventure of the Second Caravaggio

**Author's Note:**

> Another of my early attempts in writing...

The adventure of the second Caravaggio

 

It was one of the rare occasions, that Holmes would come round to our house and enjoy an evening of dinner and the company of friends. He had never been a sociable person but when he chose to, he could be as cheerful and cordial as anyone and was consequently great company, if he chose to. This evening was one of those times, Holmes had chosen to be entertaining. 

Dinner was finished and while Holmes and I stayed behind in the dining room for a smoke, Mary had already gone into the parlour, where tea would be served shortly. And it was only now, that I came round to ask, if any interesting cases had come his way lately.

“Well, yes, there was a particularly interesting one, Watson. And I reckon it will make for excellent after dinner entertainment.” he mused, while finishing his cigar and Port in silence, obviously re-collecting the details of the said case.

A moment later, we entered the living room, where Mary was rummaging around in her charity work basket. She looked up smiling, pulling out her knitting work and sat down close to the fire and the gas lighting, while I sat down on the sofa and Holmes took an armchair close to the door.

“So, what is the case then?” I inquired curiously.

“Well,” Holmes began, “I think I should start at the beginning and drag out the solution as long as I possibly can, just like a certain chronicler of mine is in the habit of doing.” 

The mocking was a kind-hearted one and held no criticism, I chuckled. And while the maid brought in the tea tray and we all helped ourselves to a steaming hot cup of tea, Holmes made himself comfortable and began his tale:

“It was two weeks ago – Friday the 18th to be precise, when after an uneventful day, that I had spend lounging about on the sofa, reading Voltaire's Discours en vers sur l'homme, when there was a knock at the front door. 

“As you may remember, Watson, it was a particularly windy and rainy day for this time of year and due to the inclement weather, it was already beginning to get dark, when a young woman entered my living room around 5 o'clock in the afternoon.

“Her state of clothes looked as was to be expected rather damp, her hair was windswept and her boots were covered in light beige mud, that is peculiar to the western Kensington area, around where it borders Notting Hill. It also fit in with her style of clothing. The young lady was dressed very fashionably and very expensive, though also very tasteful.”

“Was she a pretty girl?” I inquired.

Holmes looked at me with knitted brows, as if he had to think about it before answering.

“I would say so. She had an evenly cut face, small chin, average mouth, large brown eyes, light brown hair, that was rather plainly dressed – oh, and she had natural curls. Nothing out of the ordinary, but pleasing. Her manners were also pleasing and she had a surprisingly frank approach, considering that she must have been sheltered most of her life by at least one matron and now found herself in a part of town far beneath her usual habitat and on her own with a strange man.”

“Strange indeed,” I remarked. At which my friend grinned ruefully.

“So, what happened then?” Mary asked, pouring some more tea into her cup. If my wife had any weakness it was the excessive indulgence in tea – plain, no milk or lemon, no sugar, just a strong and steaming hot tea, preferably Earl Grey.

“ Well, as said, she was a frank person and so without any further ado she began her tale:  
'Mr Holmes, my name is Jezebel Malhurst, I am the daughter of Lord Thornhill.'

'THE Lord Thornhill who is currently vice-counsel in the southern Indian province of Madras?'

'That one.' she confirmed, before continuing.

'My father is due to return to England in November. His health is on the decline and his doctors recommended a change of climate. He has been suffering from malaria for a while now and the heat and humidity are taking their toll. But I am rambling…' she smiled ruefully.

'But that is where it all begins. Due to my fathers return, a couple of improvements were commissioned for our Kensington townhouse and he wrote a note, asking me to catalogue all the pictures and statures.'

'Does he have any intentions of selling them?' I asked.

'I do not think so. He did not state, why he requires me to write down any piece of art found in his London home.' 

She had obviously not wondered about that question before, since she looked utterly puzzled, being the dutiful daughter that never would dare question a parents request. But then she continued:

'Anyway, yesterday I made a strange discovery. The pictures are all stored in the main hall on the ground floor, which is the only room not being refurbished.'

'All rooms are being modernised?'

'Not quite. In most of them, it is only the odd thing that needs fixing. My uncle was charged with taking stock of the house and went through it with a builder to make a list of everything that needs to be done. You must know, that my father has never used the house after my mother's death eleven years ago. It was closed up and as with all closed down buildings, they seem to worsen by the day. - That is at least, what my uncle says.'

'And your uncle's name is…?'

'Charles Richardson Esquire, he was my mothers younger brother. - Her older brother is Sir James Richardson, the MP. You might have heard of him'

And so I had. I nodded for her to carry on.

'As said, I was working away in the main hall yesterday, looking at all the paintings, when I came across one, that I had already registered the day before.'

'You got confused?'

'No! Mr Holmes, I went back to where I had seen the picture only the day before – it is a very large one and would be hard to handle on one's own, I very likely could not – and the picture was there!

'There were two pictures that looked exactly the same, had the same size and signature, I could really not tell them apart. I was so confused, as soon as I arrived home I told my aunt – Mrs Richardson that is - what I had seen. She shrugged it off as if I were a silly little child making up stories. But, Mr Holmes, I am certain, that there where two pictures – two identical ones.

'Well, anyway, today I was joined by Mrs Richardson for she keeps watch over the household. We arrived at Kensington Palace Gardens at about nine and while she went straight to see the housekeeper, I went to the hall to have another look at the paintings and to prove to her that I was not making things up. But - one of them was gone! - the second one, to be precise. My aunt was taking it as a joke I had made and laughed at me, she seemed almost haughty as if she had not expected it to be otherwise. I felt so silly. To my relief, she left shortly after claiming to have to run some errands.'

'What did you do then, since it has been clearly a couple of hours since your discovery?'

'Well, I was wondering what to do. Should I tell my uncle? Ask the housekeeper about it? Or the butler? So I continued my task when I came across another peculiar thing. – When taking off the draping of yet another picture, there was nothing underneath the sheet but a blank canvas.'

'What size?'

'About two by four feet' she replied.

'What does your cataloguing the items comprise of?'

'Only the usual, I suppose. I write down the name of the artist, the date, the title of it, if there is one, it's measurements and then I make a short description of what the picture is.'

'So what was on the picture you found twice?'

She opened her purse and took out a leather bound notebook.

'It was a painting by a man who called himself Caravaggio, depicting four people sitting around a table sporting a jug of water, some sort of roasted fowl, a fruit basket and some white bread that looked like a brioche. Three of the people where clearly men, two wearing a beard, the third one looking simply unshaven. The man on the right was also wearing a seashell attached to his leather collar – something I found rather peculiar – and all three men looked rather shabby. The fourth person looks more feminine. Wearing red robes and a white shrug around the shoulders. The hair is long, past the shoulders and falls down in ringlets – very much like my own – despite looking like a woman, I do think it is a man though. The neck and chest look like the male form. It is not as lovely a picture than the Turner ones. Very dark and slightly oppressive, in my opinion.'”

Holmes took a sip of tea, a small smile played around his lips.

“Well, she was not completely wrong with her judgement.

'Do you have any idea of its value, Miss Malhurst?'

'Well, if it is from THE Italian renaissance artist Caravaggio – which I do not dare to believe, then it must be worth several thousand pounds. I have never seen it before, but then again, my father had closed up the house, when I was only eight and I had only spent very little time in London as a child. Most of the time I was cared for at Earlscote House, my fathers country estate near Taunton in Somerset and later at a boarding school near Torbay, which I left only half a year ago. Since then I have stayed with my aunt and uncle Charles at 36 Holland Park.'

'So your father's request was rather a surprise?'

“Yes. Never before had he mentioned any intention of re-opening the house in London. But he said that since I have to make my entrance into society soon and should join the next season, he thought it only proper that everything should be prepared for it.'

I nodded. 

'Well, Miss Malhurst, your case interests me very much and I will look into the matter. Is there any chance for me to take a look at the pictures and have a look round the house?'

'Of course, there is. Currently, it is only the workmen and myself that are around there.'

'No matron?' I inquired with a raised eyebrow.

'Oh, there are female servants there of course, alongside a butler that help with the preparations – the housekeeper Mrs Miller, and two maids of all trades, are there to keep up with the dust and grime the workmen bring into the house. And the butler to assemble the staff needed to keep the house in tolerable order and to lay down the wine cellar. I cannot possibly stay alone in a house on my own that is full of men!'

She looked at me aghast and with an embarrassed blush and I could not help the idea creeping up on me, that one of the workmen was a handsome young man that unfortunately was not born a noble or at least had the good luck of being very rich.

Anyway, Watson, Mrs Watson, I went to Kensington Palace Gardens the very next morning, which was not any less gloomy than the previous day, the rain still pouring down and the air still rather cold for April.”

Holmes paused for a moment, looking around the comfortable scene in front of him – a merrily flickering fire, a steaming teapot, a cup next to each of us, myself stretched out comfortably on the settee, my wife on her favourite rocking chair next to the fire and he himself in the midst of it, feet stretched out, resting on a footstool. He smiled in contentment, and yet at that moment I thought I saw an underlying sadness in the features of my friend, something I did not quite understand at the time, but which was also one of the rare moments that I realised that behind the cold demeanour there was a man of flesh and blood and as capable of emotions as everyone else. But this was only to last a second before he was back to his old withdrawn self and so he sipped some more of his tea, before continuing.

“As said, I arrived at the house, a late Regency affair, fairly dainty but not overly welcoming, at about half past nine in the morning and was let in by the young lady herself. I could make out the shadow of a rather large woman in one corner, lingering behind one of the pillars. Her secret chaperone, no doubt. Some noise descended from the upper levels indicating that the workmen were doing what they were supposed to do.

“We crossed the entrance hall, exited it through a large set of double doors on the right-hand side of it that led into a wide corridor. On the left were large windows, each with a cushioned window seat and on the right four sets of double doors again. As we entered the main hall, which was the first one, I could see, since one wing of yet another double door stood half ajar, that all the rooms on this side where interlinked to give room for formal parties, balls and dinners.

“All those rooms where currently empty except a ladder, leaning against a wall in the next room, a crate of tools next to it and some sheets to cover up the surroundings folded up neatly hung about the rungs of that ladder. Well, of course, all the rooms where empty, except one. - The main hall, of course, was not empty. It was filled with easel upon easel, most of them makeshift, but all of them containing pictures of various shapes and sizes. Those pictures where covered by large white sheets to keep the dust from settling on them, apart from the one picture that was currently under examination by my client – which at that time was a medium sized one with a bunch of poppies, a loaf of bread and a pewter goblet, well arranged and decently painted but not exactly captivating.”

Holmes grimaced as he recalled the memory of it, and I remembered that Holmes' great uncle had been a painter.

“'These are all the pictures from all over the house. A hundred and twenty-nine to be accurate. As well as the figurines and statues – but there are only thirty-four of them. The smaller ones are stored in the boxes over there.'

She pointed them out before walking over to a large painting and pulling off the cover.

'This is the picture I told you about.'

“It was as she had stated a bit oppressive, but none the less a beautiful piece of art. The faces were very vivid and lifelike and there was no mistake that it was one of THE Caravaggio's work or at least a very brilliant copy of it. I examined it closely and realised, that the paint was still slightly sticky. Oil paint needs a fair amount of time to dry completely usually around a week, but at least several days. This had not had that time yet and the colours had not set fully. Also, I could detect the faint smell of the paint. So this was not an original. But, if the picture must have been in the possession of the family for at least decades, as Miss Malhurst claimed, why then, was the paint still fresh?

'Where did you find the second painting?'

'Over here, it was leaning against this easel.' she pointed at the ground right in front of one of the many.

'Are you certain?' I asked again.

'Yes.'

'It was not ON the easel?'

'No, it was propped up against it, but sitting on the floor.' she answered.

That, Watson, was curious.”

“Why was that?” 

“Because all the other ones were placed ON the easels.”

“I still fail to see the significance.” I had to admit.

Holmes raised his eyebrows as if he could not believe, someone would not see the importance of that piece of information.

“Well, Watson, it is the most crucial piece of information possible, and here is why: There was actually one more painting in the room than before or after that day, Miss Malhurst discovered the second Caravaggio. - One more! So where did the forgery come from, and where did the original go? And moreover, who was responsible for it?”

“So you think the paintings where exchanged?”

“Of course, Watson, they were!”

“So what is with the empty canvas?”

“We are getting to that now. There was no point in examining the area around the spot she had shown me because the maids were very efficient in their duties indeed. So I proceeded to the second mystery – the blank canvas.

'So where did you find the blank canvas then, Miss Malhurst?' I asked her.

'Oh, that was over there.' she went over to a different corner of the room.

'Why did you check on it? You said you were looking for a rather large picture, but the canvas is obviously too small for the Caravaggio duplicate.'

'Oh, it certainly is, but it was the next one I wanted to work on.'

'Do you follow a certain order around the room?'

'I do. It is a bit silly, but you can see, that the parquet flooring is sporting these ten by ten feet squares. I started at the first square next to the door and worked basically around square by square. - It was easiest to cross them out on my sketch of the room, so I could keep track of what I had done and what I still need to.'

I went over to her and took off the cover of the item. And there it was – the perfect picture of a little girl with soft brown curls, large brown eyes, rosy cheeks and a curious smile around her mouth, one I already knew. - It was a picture of my client as a toddler. She had obviously never seen it before since she was stunned.

'But that is – me!' she gasped.

'So it seems.' 

As I began examining it, I realised, that opposed to the other one, the paint in this picture was not fresh and the distinct smell that had clung to the other painting was completely absent from this one. I looked at the artists signature and found that it had been painted by Arthur Huges – who seems to be on the rise currently. And hence worth quite a bit So why had this picture been replaced by a blank canvas? I assumed, to replace the original, while the copy was made – which had not been swapped yet because it still needed to dry.

'Does this picture have the same size than the canvas had?' I ascertained

'Yes, but the canvas lay on its side, not upright like this one.' 

'Very well, Miss Malhurst, I think I have gathered all the information I could and now I will leave you to your task.'

So I went home, passing first the formidable housekeeper, who of course had been right outside the door, guarding her charge and the butler on the way out, who spoke animatedly to one of the workmen. I hurried home and got myself dressed up as a gentleman – oh do stop laughing, Watson!”

I had started to laugh, as I had never seen my friend – unless he WAS dressed up, appearing like anything than a perfectly dressed and well-groomed gentleman. Him being dressed up as a gentleman was hardly a dress up at all. - Or so I assumed.

“Well, a gentleman other than myself, if you will.” he clarified, chuckling himself, now. “I put on a false nose, beard, sideburns and glasses, also a horribly gaudy waistcoat and those tan gaiters I got from Mycroft for Christmas. I stuffed out my midsection with one of Mrs Hudson's plump Sofa cushions – they, at last, were practical for something – and left for the Artisan Gallery on Oxford Road.”

“Why the Artisan? It is not a very good gallery, they never seem to have anything else but what everyone has at home.” I remarked. Remembering my experience there when getting a picture of our living room.

“Because, Watson, you have never been led into it's back. You would be surprised. And, because of some of the easels at the house where borrowed from there. The name of the gallery was stamped onto them.”

“I never even knew, they had a back room,” Mary stated, looking up from her work. But then again I doubt we are the kind of people they would show an original unless it is from a minor painter and hence affordable.”

Holmes nodded while pouring some more tea into our cups.

“Anyway, I was shown into the back room, but only after having proclaimed my expertise while proving I hardly had some and voicing my general displeasure at the lack of quality and the lack of original artwork – or at least a decent copy and also hinting of a large sum, I intended to spend on any item I might take a fancy to.

'So what exactly is it, you are looking for?' Harnett, the manager asked me, pushing aside his assistant and eyeing me carefully.

'A painting. A decent one, fairly large that will fit into my library – so something classical, I dare say. The price is of no importance, so I do not want something I can get at any given corner shop.' I replied and the man's eyes lit up at the prospect of selling something exclusive and very expensive.

'Sir, if you have the money, we have the art to go with it. Classical… - Well, I do think I have something there, that might fit your want. If you will follow me, please.'

He bowed and led me into the back room. Said room is a very stuffy and pompous affair with lots of green velvet, brocade and leaf gilding. Actually, a room which would make any true connoisseur doubt the taste of the owner and hence his competence.

'Please take a seat, sir.' he offered and I sat down on one of the brocade-covered and gilded Chippendale chairs. 'Can I offer you something to drink? Brandy?' 

'I take a whisky and soda.' I ordered and when I was served, he proceeded towards a rack, where many unframed pictures where waiting to be shown and sold off. He looked through them and then pulled out a fairly large one depicting Leda and the swan. - On that one, I will not go into detail.” Holmes nodded towards my wife.

“'How about this one?' I was asked. 'It is a classical theme and done by Géricault, a name you must have heard.'

I nodded and looked at the picture critically, before answering coolly:

'I am a member of the parish council, do you think this picture would be apt to hang in my library?'

'Oh! Of course not…' the man blushed and tucked it back into its place.

I will not bore you with the title and description of every single painting I was shown since this went on for almost an hour until my host sighed in exasperation and just when I thought he had given up, did, what I had been hoping for all along. 

'I do happen to have a very special painting here that I have only acquired this very morning. It is a biblical theme and done by one of the worlds finest renaissance artists the world has known – Caravaggio. Never thought I would lay hands on a real one. But the seller was in dire need for cash and I was happy to lay my hands upon it.' he rung a bell and one of the clerks came into the room.

'Please tend to Mr Sherrinford, Fawley!' he ordered his inferior while he left the room to fetch the picture in question.

And within minutes I found myself opposite of Caravaggio's masterpiece once more, as he put it onto a stand in front of me.

'What do you say, Mr Sherrinford?' the manager beamed.

'Exactly what I was looking for!' I ejaculated, in feigned delight, getting up and taking a closer look at the painting.

“Watson, I am not an entrepreneur of the fine arts and I certainly disqualify as someone being able to establish a pictures authenticity, but in this case, I was pretty certain, that what was in front of me, was exactly what it was supposed to be. - A real renaissance masterpiece.”

“How could you be certain?” I inquired.

“I was not, but this painting was certainly older than the one at the house. And there was nothing crude in it. It was incredibly detailed and the brush strokes were almost invisible on the canvas, so well was the paint worked and the colours mixed” he answered, and once more revealed, that he was so much more than the thinking apparatus, he made everyone believe he was.

“So what did you do?” Mary had stopped her needlework and had begun to listen to the story intently.

“I continued to play my part, Mrs Watson. I asked for the papers asked who the previous owner was and so forth.”

“Did you get an answer?” my wife wanted to know.

“I did after some convincing”, Holmes answered smiling.

“So?”

“'You cannot possibly expect me to buy a picture for that kind of money without being able to prove that you are entitled to sell it, Sir!' I whined. 

'But can you not just trust me on that?' the man asked browbeaten.

'Trust is a gift to be earned, Mr Harnett. How can I trust a total stranger?'

This went on for some time and I will not repeat everything that was said, just that finally:

'All right, Mr Sherrinford, I will show you the documents that prove that I am entitled to sell the picture.'

The man showed me a receipt and a letter with instructions from none other than Lord Thornhill.”

“The Lord sold his pictures?” I was baffled.

“At that point I was not sure myself, whether it was indeed the Lord who sold the paintings and had copies made – maybe he needed the money for something – or, which I thought more likely, that someone was acting as if he acted upon the Lords will sold the pictures to the galleries after having copies made to inconspicuously exchange them with forgeries to pocket the money himself. There was something about the letters, which struck me as odd, but I have to admit to my disgrace, that at the time, I did not recognise what it was.”

“So what did you do next?”

“I asked who acted as an agent and was told that it was a young gentleman, an advocate by profession, who took care of the trades. He was young, around thirty, strongly built and handsome, well dressed and spoken, but rather from the country than from town. At that point, I knew I had all the information I needed to solve the puzzle. So I went home and spent the rest of the day and the whole of the night pondering the problem.” At that he paused. “I know it is terribly impolite, Mrs Watson, but would you mind me smoking?” 

“Well, John always does, so of course I don't mind,” she answered bewildered. The thought that Holmes had refrained from smoking out of courtesy for her, had obviously never crossed her mind – and neither mine for that matter. He lit one of his small cigars, inhaling deeply, before continuing.

“The next day, I went to see Miss Malhurst at her uncle's house. Fortunately, her aunt and uncle where present as well, when I was shown into the breakfast room. All three appeared surprised at my entrance. Miss Malhurst, because she had not thought she'd see me again this soon, and Mr Richardson because he did not know, Miss Malhurst had engaged me in the matter, even oblivious to the fact, that anything was amiss at all.”

“The lady had not told him?”

“Neither lady had told him, Watson. - Remember, the aunt knew about the discovery, even though she had laughed it off, and yet, she did not say a word to her husband – not even in jest. Why? Was it because she suspected him? - Or was it, because she needed to hide something?” he smiled pensively.

“It was the latter, Watson!” he declared. “It was the lady, who was behind it.”

Mary and I looked at each other incredulously.

“Mr Richardson, Mrs Watson, is a man of about 40, heavy set, with a round face – intelligent, friendly, and good humoured, but plain. His hair is receding and already grizzled, while his wife is little older than her niece and a very beautiful woman – in the fashionable sense.” Holmes' face bore an expression of disdain.

“So the inevitable had happened. While her visits to the house to oversee her niece and check on the servants – which she had taken upon herself since her niece had not yet had any experience, she had met a young and handsome man. A man, who was able to move around the house freely and without raising any suspicion.”

“One of the workmen!” I cried out.

But Holmes shook his head. - “No, the Butler. I fear in this case for once it was the butler.” Holmes laughed softly.

“I had only seen him briefly on my way out of the house, and indeed, the description could have matched one of the workmen as well, but could they really roam the house freely? Could one of them really bring a canvas the size of the Caravaggio painting into the house – and out of it again - without anyone noticing? Well, perhaps, but it was not very likely. They had engaged Smithson's of Culvert Road on the south side of the river, and coincidentally I know, that they tend to assemble their men at the contour where they pack everything they need for the day and then cart off tools, material and men to their destined workplace. - Which makes it extremely difficult to transport a frame of any substantial size. So, the butler was the more likely suspect.”

“But the lady?” 

“Well, Watson, remember that there was something odd about the letters, the manager at the Artisan had shown me?”

I nodded.

“During my vigil, I remembered what had struck me as out of place – two things actually. The handwriting had been rather rough, and somehow forced, but thinking back, it could have been a woman's hand, one that pretended to be written by a man and then there was the address at the top of the letter – it said Holland Park! Well, it usually is the most profane thing a forger overlooks. And in this case, the habit of giving Holland Park as an address on a letter gave the lady away.”

“So am I to understand, that Mrs Charles Richardson sold off the pictures to the Artisan Gallery with the help of the butler? Why?”

“Oh John, that is obvious. - The butler is young and good-looking, but not very wealthy – basically the opposite of what the lady had at home. She wanted to run off with him. Am I right?”

“Yes, Mrs Watson, you are absolutely right.” Holmes bowed his head in her direction. “I think it is sufficient to only shortly describe the situation that unfolded in front of me when I laid down the facts. Miss Malhurst burst out crying, while her uncle just sat there in silence. His good-natured face ashen and sad, but otherwise emotionless. Mrs Richardson shrugged her shoulders, proclaiming that she'd had no other choice. 

'What was I to do? I was stuck in this marriage with…' she did not finish her sentence, but the look on her face was enough to have everyone known that the only person she had ever cared for, was herself.  
.  
'You are not worthy to kiss the ground under his feet!' her niece stated between sobs, getting up and wrapping her arms around her uncle's neck, who in turn took her hands in his, squeezing them reassuringly. 

'Why did you need to arrive twenty minutes before your usual time? You, Jezebel, are to blame! If it had not been for you, no-one would have known.' the lady spat at her niece, the two young women glaring at one another.

To my surprise, at that exact moment, the bell rang again and the butler, oblivious of what had happened since I had arrived, led in a young man. Slender, with golden blonde hair a small goatee, bright blue eyes and a sensitive mouth and I recognised the workman, the butler had spoken to when I had left – only that I had seen him only from the back and at an angle at that.

“I had been mistaken, he was no worker – this man was a painter, as was confirmed shortly after the man's arrival.

'Excuse my interrupting your breakfast…' he began, when a glance at the scene in front of him, made him trail off.

'Yes?' Mr Richardson almost inaudibly asked.

'I – I am here because I realised yesterday, that something was wrong. I brought down your painting and was about to take up another one' he looked at my young client, 'when you arrived' at that he looked at me.

'I hid behind the door in the next room and I realised, that you are unaware, that I…' he looked at a loss as to what to say.

'When you realised, that the actual lady of the house had no idea of your copying the pictures.' I helped him. He nodded. 

'I slipped out of the room quietly, almost running into the housekeeper, but got away, claiming that I had brought down some of the sheets and put them on top of the ones that where already hung up on the ladder and went to see the butler, who claimed to be the agent of his master and what did I see? Him kissing you!' he pointed at the lady with disgust on his handsome face. 

'After the lady had left,' he continued, 'I went straight to talk sense into him, but he threatened me into silence. - I am not a rich man and I am dependent on the money, my mother is very ill and… - Well, I kept silent for then. But I could not sleep all night long and early this morning I knew, I had to get straight and tell you, Miss and you Sir. I am all for love – but it has to be the simple, the passionate kind.'

“Watson, if he had not been so sincere, it would have been a very ridiculous speech done by a man, indeed.”

“So you don't believe in simple and passionate love?” Mary asked with an eyebrow raised.

I half expected Holmes not to answer, but he did, to my surprise.

“No, I do not believe in the combination of the two, passionate and simple do not go together, Mrs Watson. - But I do believe in love.”

For a moment no one said a word. Then, after a few minutes, Holmes finished his tale.

“'As you feel for Miss Jezebel?' the lady glared.

My young client looked up, her eyes searching and her cheeks crimson. - As crimson as the young man's.

'Stop right there!' her husband interjected, 'you are not the one to make sport of them. I do think Clara, that you better leave this house. I do not think I can stand your presence any longer. Go with that handsome butler of yours and let me be.'

“That was not stated with any malice or even anger. Richardson looked only tired and disillusioned and before my eyes, he had aged a considerable bit within the last few minutes.

'I think I better leave as well.' the young artist quietly said eyes turned towards the ground. He had obviously said more than he had intended to.

'No, young man, you may stay and sit down. Jezebel, pour him some coffee – and Mr Holmes as well.'

I declined and excused myself. There was nothing left for me to do. There was a more suitable – and more welcome man than I, to explain again, what had gone on. I still left a note with the maid that I could be contacted if any legal action was to be taken and went home.”

“But how could this young artist assume, that what he did was legal and organised by Lord Thornhill? Was it not obvious, that he forged paintings?” Mary asked

“It is not very unusual, that when originals are to be sold due to dire straits, that, to keep the situation a secret, a cheap copy is made to substitute the picture that is being sold. And since the copy is not meant to be sold as an original, it is, by law, not considered a forgery. - On top of that, the supposed letter from Lord Thornhill asked specifically for that service. So the Artisan sent out one of their painters to do the work – and since there where a lot of workmen around, he did not attract any attention by the young lady as well as the other servants. - Or even with me.”

“Well, that was an interesting case, indeed,” I exclaimed looking at the embers in the grate slowly dying down.

“There is just one more thing, I would like to know.” my wife added after a few moments, “do you think, the young lady and her painter will have a chance?”

Holmes got up slowly from his armchair and made to leave. His expression thoughtful.

“That, Mrs Watson, I do not know. Matters of the heart are a puzzle which I have not as yet been able to solve. Personally, I think to solve a crime is much less intimidating.”

We all started to laugh. And still chuckling, Holmes bid us good night and went home.

**

“Well, I think,” Mary said, as we went upstairs, “that the uncle will put in a good word for the young man.”

“Why?”

“Because he knows that loving someone is worth more, than marrying for money and status.”

“Well, that is very true.” I kissed her gently.

“As true as that one day, you will see your friend a married man,” she remarked, at which I simply shook my head. On occasion, my wife could be in a queer humour.

 

 

Note: The Caravaggio picture described is the “Supper at Emmaus” from 1601, which hangs in the National Gallery in London. I borrowed it for my purpose. Also, Arthur Hughes never painted a picture of Jezebel Malhurst – obviously.


End file.
